He released images of a Bigfoot autopsy, and the leak caused everything to go terribly wrong

I Leaked the Autopsy Photos. Fifteen of Them Died Because of Me.

My name is Marcus Webb.

Fifteen months ago, I pressed a button on my computer and convinced myself I was doing the right thing.

I told myself I was exposing the truth.
Protecting an endangered species.
Standing up against decades of lies.

Instead, I signed the death warrant for fifteen living beings.

This is not a story about monsters in the forest.
This is a story about good intentions, human arrogance, and how truth—when released without wisdom—can become a weapon.

I worked as a molecular biologist at a remote wildlife research station in Northern California, deep in the redwoods. Officially, we studied animal populations, migration patterns, genetics. The kind of quiet government work nobody cared about.

That was the cover.

In reality, we were part of a classified program studying things the public wasn’t supposed to believe existed.

Creatures dismissed as myths.

Legends filed away under “impossible.”

For eight years, most of my work was dull. Hair samples. Tissue degradation. DNA comparisons that always led back to known species. I’d almost convinced myself the rumors were exaggerated.

Then one night in September, I was called in after midnight.

When I entered the examination room, armed guards stood at the door.

And on the steel table lay a body that erased everything I thought I knew.

Nine feet tall.
Massive.
Covered in dark, reddish-brown fur.

A Sasquatch.

Dead.

Not a blurry photo. Not a footprint. Not a story.

A real, undeniable being.

I remember staring at its face—terrifyingly close to human—and feeling awe, fear, and something else I couldn’t name yet.

Grief.

Over the next days, we performed the autopsy. I documented every detail. Muscle density unlike any primate. Brain volume larger than the human average. Vocal structures suggesting complex language.

Then we opened the body.

That’s when everything broke.

Old surgical scars crossed the abdomen—clean, professional, healed decades earlier.

And buried in the hip bone, we found a metal implant.

A tracking device.

Someone had operated on this being.

Someone had monitored him.

The DNA results came back next.

Ninety-six percent human.

But the differences weren’t random. They were deliberate. Engineered.

This creature wasn’t a product of evolution.

He was a product of experimentation.

I accessed files I wasn’t cleared to see. Records from the 1960s. A project designed to merge human and ape DNA. Super-soldier fantasies. Genetic failures.

Twelve survivors.

Too intelligent to kill. Too dangerous to keep.

So they were released into the wilderness and quietly monitored for decades.

They built families. Cultures. Languages.

And when one died, his body was recovered, studied, destroyed—erased.

Standing over that autopsy table, I felt sick.

We weren’t studying animals.

We were dissecting people.

That’s when I made my decision.

I would expose everything.

The photos.
The scars.
The DNA.
The documents.

The world deserved to know.

On October 1st, I released the files.

And for a few hours, I felt like a hero.

The story exploded. News outlets. Social media. Scientists confirmed the images were real. The government denied everything—but nobody believed them.

I thought public outrage would lead to protection.

I was catastrophically wrong.

Within days, the forests filled with armed men.

Hunters. Collectors. Thrill-seekers.

Some wanted fame.
Some wanted money.
Some just wanted to kill something legendary.

The reports started coming in.

A Sasquatch shot dead in Oregon.
Another in Washington.
Then another.

I watched the news from a detention cell, my hands shaking as images appeared online—bodies posed like trophies, their deaths traced directly back to my leak.

I had given away tracking data. Coordinates.

I hadn’t protected them.

I had handed their killers a map.

Then came the family.

Fifteen of them. Adults. Juveniles. Infants.

Hunters were closing in.

I was released under supervision and rushed to the site with journalists, hoping cameras could do what my conscience couldn’t anymore.

We found them living in a hidden canyon.

And they weren’t monsters.

They were parents grooming children. Young ones playing. An infant clinging to its mother.

People.

The cameras streamed live as hunters arrived.

Words were exchanged. Tension snapped.

A tranquilizer dart hit a juvenile.

Then a gunshot.

An adult female fell.

Dead.

Her baby crawled to her body, crying, pawing at her face, not understanding why she wouldn’t move.

Millions watched it happen in real time.

That moment became the image the world would never forget.

Federal agents arrived too late.

Fifteen of them would eventually be confirmed dead.

Fifteen lives erased because I believed exposure alone was enough.

The government moved quickly after that.

Emergency laws. Federal protection. Hunting banned. Territories secured.

The species survived.

But survival came at a cost I will carry forever.

I went to prison.

My family fell apart.

My daughter wouldn’t speak to me.

Some people called me a hero.

Others called me a murderer.

Both were right.

Months later, I was allowed to witness one thing.

The orphaned infant—now called Hope—being reunited with her father.

I watched from a distance as a massive figure emerged from the forest, knelt, and gently lifted her into his arms.

He made sounds that weren’t anger.

They were relief.

Grief.

Love.

She was home.

That was the only moment of peace I’ve had since.

I still believe those beings deserved recognition.

I still believe the experiments were crimes.

But I learned something the hard way:

Truth without protection is not justice.

Exposure without preparation is not salvation.

Sometimes secrecy—carefully used—is what keeps the innocent alive.

I thought I was throwing light into the darkness.

Instead, I lit a fire.

And fifteen living beings burned because of it.

That is my confession.

That is the cost of my truth.

And I will carry it for the rest of my life.